Page 74 of Restored Dreams

“I need to get to work,” I say, brushing past Brut. He doesn’t follow me, and for once, I’m grateful, but the sadness continues. He never follows me.

+ + +

I stand on my feet too much, causing my ankles to swell and my feet to puff up to the point of pain. Ester is militant about making me rest, but today, I need to keep busy. I’m thankful I still have the apartment upstairs where I can lie down for a nap, but I refuse to use it until I can’t stand anymore. It’s seven o’clock, and I have one more batch of cupcakes—cranberry orange. Over the years, I’ve spent Thanksgiving in a variety of manners: friends, vacations, alone, baking. I looked forward to this year being the start of what I hoped would be a new tradition—spending time with family. My memories of family holidays have faded to nothing as I haven’t done something like that in a long time.

“Girl, what are you doing?” Ester admonishes as she comes out of the bathroom. Her apron is removed, and she’s staring at me as I set out ingredients.

“I’m just going to—”

“No, girl, what are you doing?” Ester’s accent comes out with her emphasis.

“I’m going to stay here tonight.” I speak quietly, preparing for Ester’s wrath. Instead, she steps over to me.

“You’ve worked hard today. What happened?” Ester’s cappuccino-tan hand covers my arm. She didn’t miss the red rim of my eyes earlier, and she wanted to talk, but with Julia present, we just didn’t. Ester has had a rough relationship in the past. I sense she fears something she shouldn’t.

“We just had a fight. Or more like I dealt out words, and Brut said nothing.”

“Chica?” Ester presses.

“I said some things I shouldn’t have. I told Brut I didn’t want to marry him.”

Her dark brows pinch as her eyes narrow. “You what?”

“Not in so many words. It was more like I don’t think I should marry him.” Wanting to marry him was a different definition.

“Why?” Ester’s breath mixes with the question, and I look over at her.

“I’ve already told you. Brut likes to do the right thing, and in his head, the right thing is to marry me. And I’m being a romantic fool at forty-one and want him to love me instead.” I shrug as if it’s that simple.

“But he does.”

“He hasn’t said that.” Another month has passed, and the man still hasn’t expressed any feelings about me.

“Lily, anyone watching that man as he looks at you knows he’s all over you like flour on fresh bread. He loves you.” I stare at my friend and her strange metaphor.

“Why do I question it then?” Is it just the hormones? Or am I really an emotional mess?

“A lot has happened so fast.” Ester holds out her hand, ticking off the items on her fingers. “Your sister. His son. The pregnancy. Moving in together. Mind-blowing sex. Or at least I assume you have that kind of sex, but you refuse to tell me details, and you know this girl is desperate over here.” She lets out a deep phew and an exaggerated wipe of her brow to finish off. I shake my head with a humorless chuckle. She’s always probing for details about sex between Brut and me, but Brut and I haven’t connected sexually over the past week. I cringe with the thought as I’ve been too busy avoiding the marriage discussion, which means avoiding him.

“Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones.” I laugh it off although I don’t like to use the pregnancy as an excuse. Lima Bean is already the reason Brut wants me to marry him, and therein lies another sliver of the issue. Brut didn’t actually ask me to marry him. He suggested we get married, and then hit the ball for a home run without popping the question. But we’re far enough along in the game now that I’m too embarrassed to call foul. I haven’t told anyone he didn’t officially ask me, and that piece of the puzzle bothers me.

“You need to go home,” Ester says, looking at the containers spread around the prep table. “Talk to him.”

I nod, but I know I won’t go.

“Avoiding isn’t healthy,” she tells me, and again, I know she’s right, but still…

“It’s just one night. I promise. Things always look better in the morning.” It’s cliché, but it appeases her. She pats my arm and picks up the container of flour.

“No more cupcakes,” she says, returning the jar to the counter where we store our dry goods. “Bed.”

Drudgingly, I climb the stairs after locking up and fall on the couch. My feet are so swollen, I don’t trust myself to stand in the shower, so I lie there sweaty and sticky. I prop my elephant looking ankles up on the armrest, and my hand goes to my belly, rubbing over the swell.

“We’ll get through this,” I say, my heart clenching at the words. The truth is, we will. Brut won’t let the baby lack, but I can’t live without him loving me. My tired eyes finally have no more tears, and I close them with relief. I think I hear my phone but lying on the couch feels so good. I’m too exhausted to get up, so I ignore it the second time it rings. I will myself into a happy place. The beach. Lima Bean. And sleep.

38

Man up or go home…or both